


Leg Day

by woodenducks



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Dates, Fluff and Smut, Gyms, M/M, Meet-Cute, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 14:52:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9766724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodenducks/pseuds/woodenducks
Summary: Dean hates leg day. Hates working out at all, really. But it's worth it when there's a smokin' dude with power thighs rocking the hack squat two machines over.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time participating in any sort of 'fest, and the [Dean/Cas Fluff-Fest](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/dcfluff) has been a really great introduction.
> 
> Also, this was supposed to be fluff but took a sharp left turn into porn, so... Sorry?

It’s leg day. And Dean fucking _hates_ leg day. The only good thing about it is that he can cheat a bit and take it easy: sort of only half-load up the leg press and take really long rests between sets, and maybe, okay definitely, surreptitiously check out that guy with the messy dark hair and the powerful thighs on the hack squat two machines over.

Dean likes to pretend that he doesn’t need to work out, that exercising is terrible and only something his awful health-freak of a little brother would do. But he will concede to lifting weights three times a week, as he argues that he can spend some of that time sitting down, and definitely none of it running or, heaven forbid, doing _yoga_ or whatever else Sam tries to talk him into. Still, his l _aissez-faire_ attitude and propensity to mostly work on glamour muscles means that his biceps, triceps and deltoids are rockin’, while he’s still a little soft around the middle.

That hot guy, though, is definitely no slouch. Dean sees him there once or twice a week when their schedules overlap, and the guy’s always sweating but working effortlessly, busting out set after set of pull-ups, chest presses, deadlifts. He makes Dean feel like a bit of a lump. And definitely self-conscious about how red his face gets when he pulls through a heavy lift.

Right now, for example, the guy is on his second set on the hack squat, ten reps in, not that Dean is counting. He must have close to three hundred pounds stacked on, and his thighs are just _working_. Dean’s a bit mesmerised. And now, yes, definitely staring. It’s almost hypnotic, the flex and push of the strong muscles. The guy reaches fifteen, straightens out, turns and catches Dean’s eye. Dean quickly snaps his head forward, trying really hard to not look back and not look guilty, and unlocks the leg press to push his embarrassment out in another set.

  
  


Okay, so maybe not checking out the hot guy is harder than Dean thought it would be. He’s on the cable cross half-heartedly working through sets of oblique twists, and each turn of his body brings him right around to face the benches and dumbbells set up in front of a mirror on the other side of the gym. And so maybe Dean is pulling through each rep and his eyes keep catching on hot guy, who’s not just into working his thick thighs, but apparently also is curling something close to 90 pounds, biceps flexing, form perfect.

Hot guy’s shirt is sticking to his back with sweat, but in that rumpled, slightly damp, sexy way. Not like Dean’s shirt, which is starting to smell a bit off, and definitely has sweat patches around the collar and armpits. He brings his head down to sniff surreptitiously at his armpit at the apex of his next twist. Yep, he definitely smells.

He looks up and catches hot guy’s eyes in the mirror over the room. Hot guy raises an eyebrow. Dean is so fucking busted.

He really can’t cope with this shit any more.

  
  


The next week, Monday, arms and chest day, Dean’s loading up the chest press bar when he hears a deep voice behind him ask: “Do you need a spotter?” Oh man, that voice. He turns around and — _fuck_ , he is in trouble. It’s him, Power Thighs, sweat starting to lightly stain the neckline of his navy t-shirt, swinging a water bottle from one hand, a small towel slung over his shoulder.

“Do I what?” he manages, realising that he’s staring probably a little too long at the fine sheen of sweat on Power Thighs’s throat.

“Do you want a spotter?” he repeats, patiently. “I’ve seen you working out alone, and I thought, if you’re gonna lift big, maybe you could use a spotter.”

Dean clears his throat, shifting awkwardly backwards until the bench hits the back of his knees and he falls, trying to casually make it look like he’s intentionally sitting down, probably failing.

“Uh, sure. Yeah. Thanks, man.” He’s really trying to save some face here, voice coming out rough and masculine in an attempted recovery.

Power Thighs grins at him, comes to stand behind the bar. “I’m Cas, by the way.”

Dean lays back on the bench, his towel rough under the back of his head. “Dean,” he offers, bringing his hands up to grip around the bar.

“Ready when you are, Dean.” Fucking hell, as if there isn’t enough to focus on during a chest press, now Dean has to somehow function enough to keep his form and not ogle hot guy—Cas—standing over him like the Greek god of power lifting.

He breathes in, sets his shoulders, and begins. Cas is there, guiding the bar with the lightest of touches, really just fingertips, but ready if Dean needs him. Dean focuses on the lifts and tries really hard not to look up the leg of Cas’s shorts while he’s standing right behind Dean’s head. Dean focuses on the gym’s ceiling, because it’s really not fair to have a hot dude’s junk hovering over your face while you’re not in any sort of condition to receive it.

He is so fucked.

  
  


It goes like this for a few weeks. They nod in acknowledgement in the locker room, trade pleasantries, spot one another on the chest press and barbell squat. They don’t trade numbers, they don’t exchange much more than names and mild inoffensive conversation about gains and reality TV.

Dean definitely doesn’t go home and jerk off in the shower thinking about Cas’s well-defined back, or strong arms, or thick thighs. Dean’s sure that Cas is almost definitely straight, and cruising at the gym has always seemed a bit tawdry. So he’s going to content himself with casual acquaintance and fucking _stolen glances_ like a goddamn romance novel, and it will have to be enough.

  
  


It’s a Monday, two weeks later, and Dean is back on the bench, halfway through a mean set of chest press reps, Cas hovering over him and spotting. The distraction of Cas’s proximity has been lessening microscopically, and Dean finds that he can actually focus on what he’s doing. Until Cas opens his mouth and asks:

“Do you want to get coffee sometime?”

Dean chokes on air and drops the bar onto his lap, hard, sitting up and coughing. _Christ_ , that hurts.

Cas is there in a second, lifting the bar easily and resting it back in the rack, apologising all the while. “Shit, Dean, sorry, that was just the worst timing. I’m so sorry.”

Dean is mostly just red-faced, embarrassed as fuck, and concerned about the bruising he’s going to have across his upper thighs.

Cas hovers next to him, hands clasping at nothing, nervousness, finally, showing under his veneer of cool.

Dean takes a deep breath, looks up and meets Cas’s eyes, which is hard considering Cas seems to be having a hard time looking at Dean directly.

“Hey,” he says, reaching out and nudging Cas’s sneaker with his toe. “Hey, sure.”

Cas looks at him, smiles. “Sure?”

Dean smiles back, wide. “Yeah, sure.”

  
  


Dean hasn’t been this nervous about a date in for-fucking-ever. He’s changed his shirt at least three times, finally settling on a grey Henley that he instantly regrets the second he leaves the house, because he knows that any nervous pit-stains are gonna show right up.

It’s a Saturday afternoon, nothing overwhelming, not a big deal, just coffee. He and Cas had exchanged phone numbers, but beyond confirming the time and location for this afternoon, they haven’t really been in touch the last few days. Dean might have been so worked up that he skipped his Wednesday and Friday gym sessions so that he could have some time to get his head on straight. If Cas had noticed— _and let’s be serious_ , Dean thinks, _he almost definitely noticed and is going to take it personally_ —he hasn’t said anything.

Dean pulls in to the parking lot of a small strip mall near the centre of town, and heads into the inexplicably named Frisky Goat Café. Cas is already there, looking effortless and amazing in a blue chambray button-down and, wow, he’s also looking surprisingly shifty. But he smiles when he sees Dean, and he stands up and pulls out a chair for him before sitting down again.

And it goes okay. The conversation is light, but not stilted, and Cas is charming and funny and awkward as hell. At one point Dean thinks he actually catches him chewing on the side of a fingernail.

Dean’s not sure why things aren’t smooth and simple. He’s Dean Winchester, he’s the king of smooth dates. He knows how to flirt, and flutter his eyelashes, and get girls and guys from casual mid-week drink to casual mid-week fuck with very little effort. But for some reason, with Cas, he just can’t. He can feel a nervous flush starting to creep up the back of his neck.

He cracks. Of course he does. “Man,” he says, reaching a hand up and rubbing the back of his neck, before remembering his grey-shirt-sweat-stain situation and lowering his arm again. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I think you intimidate the shit out of me.”

Cas looks taken aback, big blue eyes blinking in disbelief. “Me? Why?”

“Because I’ve been checking you out since day one,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. Cas has turned a delightful pink in two high spots on his cheeks. “And you’re basically the hottest guy I’ve ever seen, and you asked me out and now I’m worried I’m gonna be an asshole and scare you off.”

It feels better to have it out there, like ripping off a band-aid. And now Cas can realise that Dean has no chill, maybe has never had chill, and they can move on and just go back to seeing each other at the gym. Or maybe Dean will switch gyms, and then he can pretend he was never this overtly uncool.

Cas sighs, leans forward to brace his arm on the table, swaying into Dean’s space. He’s smiling faintly. “Dean, I’ve seen you fall over and drop weights and slip on your own sweat on the gym floor. And I’ve still always been incredibly attracted to you. It took me weeks to get the nerve to ask you if I could spot you. If anything, you intimidate me.”

Huh. Well. Dean doesn’t really know how to deal with this information. Except now his brain is computing that Cas finds him attractive, and he finds Cas attractive, and so suddenly he’s not so sure what the problem was.

“Well, aren’t we are pair of idiots?” he says.

“Yep,” Cas replies. “But let me take you out again.”

Dean agrees.

  
  


Cas does take him out again, this time for dinner the following Thursday. They go out for good steaks, and Dean doesn’t spill anything on himself, or drink too much, or make an ass of himself. He does make Cas laugh, though, and he loves it, loves that full, crinkly-eyed smile. The lighting is low, and he can feel Cas pressing their legs together under the table, and he’s not surprised, doesn’t freak out at all, when Cas fits his hand to the side of Dean’s neck, thumb tracing the stubble along his jaw, before leaning in and kissing him softly on the mouth. When they break apart, finally, he breathes in Cas’s shaky exhalation, and tips his head forward, bringing their foreheads together.

“Come home with me,” Cas murmurs. 

  
  


They end up back at Castiel’s apartment, mindful of the cat getting underfoot as they strip each other of their clothes, leaving a trail from the kitchen where they shared a casual nightcap to the bedroom where they’ll share the night.

“Fuck, you’re so gorgeous,” he blurts out, stunned by the way Cas’s body looks in the yellow wash of the bedside lamp.

Cas responds by running a hand down Dean’s chest, over the muscle that they’ve been building together, brushing a thumb roughly over Dean’s nipple. Dean shivers as his nipple pebbles, and Cas strokes over it again. “And you,” Cas says, “are incredibly fucking sexy.”

Cas pushes him back onto the bed, divesting Dean of his jeans with remarkable speed. Dean watches as Cas undoes his own button fly and shoves his pants to pool on the ground by his feet, stepping artfully out of his socks somehow on the way. Dean feels like a bit of an idiot lying sprawled on the sheets with one sock hanging off his toes, and it’s not helped by the way Cas is almost swaggering, slowly, towards the bed. Those powerful thighs that Dean’s been coveting are flexed and perfect, like a marble statue, strong muscle leading up to Cas’s hard sex, pressing obscenely against the front of his white boxer briefs. Dean swallows.

“You’ve been watching me,” Cas says.

Dean nods, momentarily struck dumb.

“I’ve seen you, Dean. I’ve seen you staring at me in mirrors and across the gym. I’ve seen you do it, because I’m always staring at you.” Cas crawls onto the bed, up Dean’s body, dropping his head to kiss up Dean’s neck, wet and warm.

“Cas—” he whimpers.

“I don’t think you understand how incredibly distracting you are,” Cas says, lowering his body, tongue grazing over Dean’s left nipple. With his head tilted down, Dean can see the strength of his back, the trapezoids and deltoids flexing as Cas holds himself up and over Dean’s body. Jesus, he’s strong.

Cas brings his teeth down lightly onto Dean’s nipple, and Dean arches his back, letting out a dignified moan. Fuck, he’s gonna come just from Cas’s mouth biting and licking across his chest, just from thinking about those thick thighs framing his hips. He’s embarrassingly hard now, and he can feel a damp spot of precome spreading across the front of his shorts.

That hot mouth starts to travel further down his body, and Cas is stopping to bite and lick and kiss every couple of inches as he makes his way south. Dean feels his breath ghosting over the waistband of his boxers, feels Cas hook two fingers in the elastic and tug.

“Can I?” he asks.

“Oh, fuck yes,” Dean pants out.

He feels his erection spring out from under the fabric of his boxers as Cas pulls them down his legs. He kicks them off his feet and loses them somewhere among the sheets.

Cas looks up at him, smiling almost shyly, eyes dark and warm as he dips his head, parts his lips, and sucks the tip of Dean’s cock into the wet heat of his mouth.

“Oh, shit,” he moans. He’s definitely not going to last very long.

It turns out that, aside from being a beast at the gym, Cas is also a beast at giving head. He goes to town on Dean’s cock, kissing up the length of him, sliding his lips over and down to the root, sucking hard and applying the pressure of his tongue in all the best ways, before popping off wetly and kissing down to suck Dean’s balls into his mouth, one at a time.

Dean can feel the wet mess of precome and saliva travelling down past his sac, sliding between his cheeks. Cas chases it with his tongue, flickering wet and slippery once, twice over Dean’s hole.

He lets out a mangled, shaky moan as Cas starts to eat him out, sloppy and furious. His tongue is _everywhere_ , laving flatly over his hole, swirling softly around the muscle, flexing stiffly and pushing in, _in_ , wet and hard. Cas has one hand holding Dean’s leg up and open, the other wrapped around Dean’s cock, pumping unrelenting and steady around him, determined.

“Fuck, fuck, Caaaas—” he whines. “Oh god, ‘m gonna come.”

Cas lifts his mouth, smiles up at Dean, who almost spontaneously combusts at the shining wetness around his mouth and chin.

“Then come,” he says, simply, and brings his mouth back down, renewing his assault and jerking Dean’s cock steadily.

Dean’s never really been one to disobey an order like that.

He comes like a fire hose, shooting up his chest and to his chin with a strangled cry. Cas pulls back, panting, slowing his hand and stroking Dean through his orgasm. Then, when Dean’s eyes have cracked open again, Cas meets them with a dark, hungry look, before crawling back up Dean’s body and straddling his hips. Dean sighs as Cas takes himself in hand, stroking firmly, reaching down with the other to palm at his balls. Cas’s cock is thick and flushed dark, and Dean wants nothing more than to get it inside him, whatever way he can.

He sees Cas’s breath start to hitch, notes the red flush travelling down from his neck to his chest, and then Cas is coming in hot stripes over Dean’s torso. Dean shivers at the sensation of Cas’s release splashing onto him, feels his cock give a feeble twitch. “Jesus Christ,” he moans. He’s not sure how, but Cas seems to know how to push all of his buttons.

Cas slumps down next to him, leaning over to breathe hotly against his cheek. Dean turns his head, catches Cas’s mouth in a slow, open kiss.

“This was hot,” he says, breaking away from Cas’s lips.

“Mhmm,” Cas agrees.

“Again?” he asks. His lips brush against Cas’s with the word.

“Please,” says Cas. “Again. And then I’ll make you breakfast.”

“And then?” Dean asks, delighted that he seems to be staying the night.

“And then I’ll fuck your brains out,” Cas whispers before biting Dean’s lower lip and sucking it into his mouth.

Dean groans. “And then?” he asks.

Cas leans up and licks around the shell of Dean’s ear. “And then, tomorrow’s Friday.” His teeth tug lightly at the lobe, and Dean shivers. “Arm day.”

Dean freezes. “Oh god, no,” he says. “No, I cannot watch you work out now without popping a boner.”

Cas reaches over him, grabs him by the side and tugs him in until they’re chest-to-chest, although Dean is very aware of the sticky mess between them.

“You’ll be fine,” Cas says, kissing Dean’s mouth gently. “Just think of me there, next to you,” his hand starts sliding down Dean’s flank, curling over his hip. “Watching you,” Cas’s fingertips tease gently over his cock, coaxing a return of bloodflow. “Watching you watch me,” Cas breathes against his mouth, and Dean is getting hard again, already, as Cas’s fingers close around him.

“Okay,” he exhales. “Okay, I can live with that.”

  
  


Back at the gym, it’s still the same as always. They watch out for each other, make small talk, work out side by side. Cas pushes Dean not to skip working his core, and Dean slaps Cas on the ass as he walks by him to refill his water bottle at the fountain. It’s a give and take. If they race home afterwards to shower together, trading shy smiles and laughs and blowjobs under the water’s spray, then that’s great, too.

It’s nice, and his brother even comments on how Dean is _happy_ and _comfortable with himself_ and _honestly, I’ve never seen you like this_. Dean tells him to yuck it up but is secretly pleased, cheeks burning a little.

It’s been months, now, and Dean can see the changes physically as well as mentally. God damn, Cas is amazing. So when Dean’s lease is up, and he’s checking out apartment listings online, he messages one to Cas.

_How’s this look?_ He writes. _Two bedrooms, pets allowed. GYM IN BUILDING._

When the response he receives is a string of emojis with hearts for eyes, he’s kind of brimming with a warmth that makes his stomach all wobbly.

He grabs his gym bag from beside the couch, finishes lacing up his shoes. It’s Wednesday. Fuckin’ leg day.

**Author's Note:**

> Come and say hello to me on [Tumblr](http://bsc-trash.tumblr.com/)! I just post Supernatural gifsets and smutty drabbles.


End file.
